


Language Barriers

by SeaAnemone



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, character injury, fairy tales and childhood ruining, super secret spy stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6771001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaAnemone/pseuds/SeaAnemone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an informant in Istanbul panics, Gaby is left speechless, and Illya has to do the talking for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Language Barriers

_The rendezvous is set,_ Napoleon said seriously as he hung up the phone in their isolated safe house. _Are you ready, Juda?_

Gaby watched the nervous little man, made smaller by the way he hunched over and wrapped his arms around himself, like he was trying to disappear.

_I can't do this,_ he insisted, shaking his head almost automatically. _They will know it's me._

_They will only know if you do something to give it away,_ Illya said sternly.

_Juda, it will be fine. Try to calm down,_ Gaby reassured him, trying to compensate for her partners' flagrant lack of sympathy for the man. Not that she could fully blame them; he was smarmy from the start, and if he was truly so willing to betray his business partners, his present loyalty to the trio was hardly reliable.

_How—how do I know you won't throw me to the dogs, the second I get you what you want?_ he snapped, but the three stayed calm. An informant with cold feet was something they had been trained to deal with.

Illya, however, still preferred his own blunt style to the acquiescing one that U.N.C.L.E taught. He stood to his full, intimidating height and took a step towards the man — but Gaby put a hand out to stop him.

_Juda, we're not trying to set you up,_ she said slowly. _You can help us, and we want to help you. Do you understand? You need to calm—_

_Don't—don't tell me to calm down,_ he hissed, hands shaking. They were silent for a minute, nothing but the sound of the man's panicked breathing filling the room. He pressed his hands against his head as if trying to keep it from bursting.

Gaby took a few steps forward, and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. _Juda—_ she warned.

_Don't touch me—don’t say my name!_ he screamed, eyes alight with fear and anger as he looked up. When his gaze locked with hers, something seemed to snap behind it, like the final thread tying him to sanity breaking under the pressure, and before anyone could react, he lunged at her.

Gaby's head slammed against the ground when he knocked her down, and instantly she was seeing stars. Her senses were so scattered it took a moment to realize Juda had his hands wrapped around her throat, seeming desperate to press the life out of her. She tried to push him away, but the mania gave him an incredible strength, and she could not fight while she could not breathe.

Darkness touched the edges of her vision, encroaching fast. She heard something garbled, like shouting, and saw the blurred outline of her Russian comrade smash something into her attacker before the darkness rushed in, and swallowed her up.

* * *

Gaby startles awake and instantly sits up, gasping for air and looking around the unfamiliar room in a blur.

Napoleon comes into focus, crouched down in front of her. "Easy, Agent Teller," he says calmly.

She can't speak, can hardly breathe without flaming hot pain rising in her throat. She's suddenly aware of something around her neck, reaches up and feels the strange contraption that restricts her from turning her head.

Napoleon smiles a little crookedly. "My own creation, a makeshift brace until we can get better medical equipment. Not bad, huh?"

It feels like a combination of wooden sticks and bits of plastic, tied together to keep her neck straight. He was kind enough to attempt to add padding; some cotton around the inside, against her bruised skin. Napoleon pats her hand and then crosses the room to a window, positioning himself behind a pair of high-powered binoculars.

She glances around the surroundings. This room looks remarkably similar to the one they had stayed in earlier — but it can't be the same. Not if her memory of what happened is correct. She feels the blankets underneath her, and wonders how long she has been unconscious. How did her partners move her, change locations, avoid danger, while she remained broken and useless?

She's aware now that Illya is there, sitting beside her, holding her hand. "I'm sorry we don't have pain reliever," he whispers.

"You're welcome to use Peril as a punching bag when the pain gets a bit much," Napoleon calls from the window. Illya just rolls his eyes.

Gaby shifts her weight to lean against the wall just behind her, and opens her mouth to say something before she realizes that's impossible with the current state of her crushed windpipe. Instead she tries to breathe evenly, not to focus on the ache and burn when she does so.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Illya asks gently. Gaby stares at him for a moment, pondering. Then taps her lips with a finger, and points at him. His eyes fly wide open.

"Wha—I—"

Gaby sighs at him, then makes a gesture with one hand, closing her fingers together repeatedly like a bird's clicking beak. He still looks at her dumbfounded. Finally she points angrily at a notebook on the table. He brings it to her with a pen.

She scribbles something and holds it up. _Talk to me,_ she has underlined three times.

"Talk? About what?"

More scribbling, and then: _Anything. Distract me._

Illya presses his lips into a thin line. "I don't know if you remember what happened. But Juda panicked, and he jumped at you. Knocked you to the ground, tried to strangle you. I smashed him over the head with iron pan," he says with a rueful smile.

Scribble. _Still alive?_

Illya's jaw sets. "Yes. Not my choice. Cowboy thought it better to let him go, let him lead us to the target. That's why we are staked out here now."

He suddenly seizes her hand in both of his, engulfing it completely. "Gaby, when he—to see you like that, I—" he swallows, and his hands pulse around hers as he talks, mutually seeking and offering comfort.

"I was scared, terrified. I know I don't like to admit it much.  You like to tease me. But I thought I was losing my mind. Solo had to be voice of reason, to get us all to safety. I am so sorry, Gaby. I have not been so weak for—for long time."

At the near-break in his voice, Gaby sits a little straighter, trying to put her chin up to keep tears from streaming down her face. She fails; the tears fall steadily anyway.

Illya runs his thumb across her cheek. "I'm sorry. I will talk about something else."

She nods, to the best of her abilities. Their fingers stay intertwined as the gears turn in Illya's head, trying to think of something to say, a true struggle for the reliably quiet one on their team.

"I could—tell you a story," he finally says.

Gaby smiles a little to show her approval. She wonders what kind of story — hopes it will be something personal, something about his childhood, though doesn't truly expect that kind of thing from Illya.

But she is right, in a way. "There is a Russian story, told to us as children. About Vasilisa the Beautiful."

It turns out Illya is a very good storyteller, which surprises her. He knows how to weave a tale, how to craft the characters and keep the suspense. It is a muscle he doesn't flex often, of course; Gaby is almost more fascinated by that than the story itself.

He tells her about Vasilisa, a beautiful girl left so lonely when her mother dies, aside from the little doll she has for company, a protective gift from her mother. He describes the evil stepmother and sisters; the horrible witch Baba Yaga that Vasilisa is sent to in order to win light when all candles in their home have gone out; the skull lantern she earns from the witch to take home. He tells her that the instant Vasilisa returns from her journey, her evil stepfamily is burnt up into ash, and she buries the skull far away so it never hurts anyone again. Later, Vasilisa becomes a cloth maker in the capital city, and one day, the Tsar himself sees her skill and falls in love with her; soon after they are married.

It's an absolutely strange tale, but Gaby wouldn't say that to Illya. Napoleon, who had been listening in, has no such qualms.

"Jesus, Peril. Is that the sort of thing Soviets tell their children to put them to sleep?"

"It ends happily," he says defensively. "She finds true love." Gaby smiles to herself. The Red Peril, it appears, is a bit of a romantic.

Napoleon turns back to his binoculars. "Well, it explains an awful lot about you."

"Like your stories are so much better," he snaps.

"Oh, please. Americans know how to craft a real fairy tale. Cinderella is a classic, lovely story that causes no nightmares whatsoever."

Illya laughs sharply. "Your American cartoonists leave much out. In the end, evil stepsisters cut off their own toes to fit into the slipper. Then have eyes pecked out by birds."

Solo turns and looks aghast. "That can't be right."

Gaby scribbles something in big, block letters, then holds the notebook up for Solo to read: _ORIGINALLY GERMAN STORY._

"Ugh," Napoleon groans. "You Easterners certainly know how to ruin a childhood." 

* * *

It has been two days, and Gaby is tired of being useless. She insists that Napoleon takes her brace off, and though Illya frowns at the idea, Napoleon agrees that it's time.

Napoleon dismantles the brace and removes it slowly, revealing the purple mottling of bruises around her slender neck, the bright red scratches left by her attacker's nails. She winces a little as the plastic sticks to her skin. Illya is sitting there with them, watching with stern eyes.

"We're going to try out your voice now," Napoleon tells her. "Repeat after me: 'My name is Gaby Teller.'"

"My—" she wheezes, sounding like air leaking from a punctured tire. She tries again. "My—name is—Gaby—Teller," she manages. Her partners smile a little, encouraging.

"Good. Now say 'Napoleon Solo is very handsome.'"

"Napoleon—Solo—is—" She takes a deep breath. "Is very— _arrogant_." 

He grins at her. "Sense of humor still intact, I see."

Illya smiles again, nods at Napoleon and returns to the surveillance point by the window. Napoleon turns his attention to the scrapes and bruises on Gaby's neck and tends to them with peroxide.

"Who—made you my—nursemaid?" she teases.

"Well, it seems Peril is the teensiest bit squeamish."

"I am _not_ squeamish," Illya snaps from the other side of the room.

Napoleon lowers his voice and says, "In all honesty, I think he has trouble seeing you like this. Can't quite keep his calm when he sees handprints around your neck." He pauses as he puts a fresh bandage over the particularly nasty gash. "When he's reminded that the someone who put you in this state is still alive."

Gaby looks at their teammate by the window, the hard steady lines of his back and shoulders. He seems focused, but fidgety. He keeps running a hand through his hair and pressing his fingers over his mouth.

"It's—good thing you don't—care for me—then," Gaby says with a smirk.

"One of us needs to control his emotions, don't you think?" Napoleon winks and squeezes her hand. For all of his arrogance, his vanity and criminal habits, Gaby often forgets that Napoleon Solo can be very sweet when he wants to be. 

* * *

 By the third day, Gaby is finally able to help with surveillance, and the trio finally makes progress.

"Boys," Gaby calls to her partners. "Target's on the move."

Illya crosses the room to look through her scope. "Heading east," he confirms. "Two others in his car, and one car following."

Napoleon nods. "Let's move." He then turns to Gaby. "Will you be alright here, keeping an eye on the factory?"

"I'll be fine. Go catch our bad guys."

Napoleon smirks at her and puts their equipment together. Illya slips one pistol into his holster, and hands her his other. "Just in case," he whispers. She nods and takes the weapon.

Her partners rush out the door and she turns back to her scope in time to see their car, slow with lights off, following the target's path. Once they disappear down the street, she trains her attention on the building across the street, idly running a finger across the handle of Illya's pistol. She knows how to shoot, of course, but hasn't had any cause to yet.

An hour passes and Gaby has seen no sign of movement, heard no signal from her partners. She isn't worried, really — more than anything she's bored, hating to feel like an invalid, stuck at their base while the boys are off saving the world. 

Another hour passes, and as Gaby is considering trying to make contact with her team, suddenly there is the loud slam of a body against the door — once, twice — until it splinters under the pressure and flies open. Gaby has her gun trained on the intruder instantly, aimed for a lethal shot. The man's eyes go wide with shock and recognition.

"You—"

"Hello, Juda. I've been meaning to thank you for this," she says with a gesture to her bruised neck. Her voice is still hoarse but doesn't sound weak now; it sounds ghostly and haunting, like she's his own personal poltergeist.

"Your partners are as good as dead," he says, lies, with a slight shake in his voice that privately satisfies her. She likes to intimidate. Especially to avoid betraying the nervousness in her grip. "And you're next."

"Really," she answers coldly. He makes a sudden jerky movement — maybe panic, maybe a threat — she'll never be sure because in the next moment she squeezes the trigger twice, firing two shots into his chest, just like she was taught, and he drops instantly.

It's funny, she thinks to herself almost hysterically, that the dummies in the range are so unlike the real thing they shouldn't even allow them to be considered practice.

She isn't sure how long she's staring at the body before her team gets back. She raises her gun again when Napoleon stumbles through the remains of the door, adrenaline still surging in her veins. He puts his hands above his head in surrender, the look on his face almost proud.

"Agent Teller," he greets her.

"Agent Solo," she acknowledges, and drops the weapon. "Sorry."

"I see you've been having some fun without us."

"Told you I could handle myself." She nearly laughs as if to prove her point, but her voice cracks a little on the last syllable and she presses her lips shut.

Illya bounds in a few seconds later, eyes alight with panic. He registers the body on the ground, then steps over it and is instantly by her side.

"Are you okay?" he asks breathlessly.

"Of course. He didn't even touch me."

"That's not what I am asking."

Gaby nods and smiles faintly. "I'm okay."

Illya, charmingly obtuse about so many aspects of their relationship, still manages to be perceptive when she needs him to be. He puts his arms around her narrow shoulders, engulfing her.

"Does it get easier?" she whispers, wrapping her arms around his torso and holding him a little too tightly.

"I wish it did not," he mumbles back. "But somehow it does."

Napoleon clears his throat. "I hate to break this up, but I think our work here is done, and I'd love to get out of this godforsaken place as soon as possible."

Illya pulls away and makes to stand up, but not before placing a kiss against Gaby's knuckles. He begins to pack their equipment while Napoleon calls for an extraction and cleanup crew. Gaby is back to being useless, staring at the corpse a few meters from her until the cleanup crew arrives, only getting to her feet when her partners are nearly out the door.

Within an hour the trio is on a private plane and heading back to London for their debriefing and next assignment. It's pitch black outside the cabin windows as they pass over the city, its people unaware of the danger they have been saved from, the heroes quietly slipping away as if they had never even been there.

The city doesn't realize, Gaby thinks, that perhaps it changed her more than they changed it.

Napoleon is sound asleep, taking up three seats to stretch out fully. Across from him, Illya sits next to Gaby and pretends to read.

"You should try to rest," he whispers. Her head is against his shoulder but it's obvious that she's still wide awake.

"I don't think I can sleep," she confesses. Illya closes his book and leans over, resting his cheek on the top of Gaby's head.

"I could tell you a story," he offers.

"Are there evil witches and skull lamps in this one?" she teases, and he laughs softly.

"Not this time," he says. "This one is called…'The Twelve Dancing Princesses.'"

Gaby closes her eyes and slows her breathing, focusing on the low timbre of Illya's voice. She thinks, for a moment, she can feel him press his lips softly against her hair, just before her eyes grow heavy. Soon welcome sleep rushes in, and for now, she dreams of dancing. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work for TMFU but it'll be far from my last! Since I watched this movie a few months ago Gallya has sunk its teeth into me and refuses to let go (I know many of you can relate). Please let me know what you think :D


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